Immortal
by RDJCBSCrimeDramaWriter17
Summary: Sherlock has been around for a century and half. He has died many times over the extended time span, but could never seem to die completely. How is this possible? The answer is quite simple: he's immortal. Take a trip with Sherlock as everyone he once knew slowly comes back into his present day life.
1. Chapter 1

2005:

Sherlock was sitting in his flat at 221B Baker Street. The building had changed over time. It was not just a two-story home. It now held five small flats that the new Mrs. Hudson would rent out. Sherlock found it quite ironic when he found out that she was the great granddaughter-in-law of the original Mrs. Hudson. He found it quite interesting.

The new Mrs. Hudson was just the first person to re-enter his life. This one was much sweeter and kinder than the original one, always making sure he doing well, taking care of him when need be.

One day, while Sherlock was trying to find a way to cure his boredom, Mrs. Hudson walked in with a with a man right behind her.

"Sherlock, this man wants to talk about something," Mrs. Hudson said in a sweet but worried tone.

Sherlock got up from the chair he had lounging in and said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're quite welcome dear," Mrs. Hudson said exiting the flat.

Sherlock looked at the man. Clean shaven, salt and pepper hair, probably mid-thirties to early forties, armed and had a police badge, so a cop of sorts.

"What can I do for you-," Sherlock asked, but paused to get the man's name.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, and I'm here to talk to you about a crime," the man replied.

Sherlock mind did a 180 as he processed the new information.

He has to be a descendent of sorts, Sherlock thought. Oh how he wanted to ask, but it seemed like the man just accused him of something. That was a much more pressing matter.

"I assure you, that I've done nothing wrong," Sherlock stated.

"I know that. That's not why I'm here though," Lestrade replied.

"Why are you here then?" Sherlock asked.

"I've heard about your particular skill-set and I was wondering if you could help with a case," Lestrade explained handing Sherlock a case file.

Sherlock took the file and opened. Taking a couple minutes to look it over before saying, "The husband and maid were having an affair, so the wife killed them both out of a crime of passion. Typical."

Sherlock handed the file back to Lestrade and sat down.

"How do you do that?" Lestrade asked.

"We both see and look at the same things, you just choose not to notice," Sherlock replied.

* * *

2009:

As time went on, Sherlock, went back to trying to kill himself, but he would always come back after some time while becoming the world's only consulting detective again. His last attempt at death, wound him up in the morgue. He remembered the look on the woman's face when he sat up on the slab.

After making numerous apologies and saying it was some big prank, only then did she calm down. Ever since then whenever he need help with something she would allow him to work in one of the many labs in the hospital.

Most of the time he spent in the lab was trying to figure out why he couldn't die.

He was over a hundred and fifty years old, yet he still looked like he was in his late twenties.

While he had his head attached to microscope, he remember the first time he had died.

* * *

_It was the year 1879. It was his twenty-first birthday and he was working his first case._

_When he had finally cornered the criminal in a dark alley, he was not prepared to take a bullet to the head, because he had failed to notice the gun inside the man's inside coat pocket._

_Sherlock had laid in the alley dead for approximately five to six hours, before waking up and finding that the bullet hole in his head had disappeared completely. Not even a scar had been left there as a reminder._

* * *

Sherlock smirked at the memory, he had so much fun with his immortality back then, but as the years wore on and every one he cared about had passed away, he began to wonder when he was going to die. He started doing experiments with the blood, hair, skin and sometimes even bone he took from his body, trying to figure out why he wouldn't die.

He remembered when he, himself looked the age he was. That all changed after he and Moriarty went over the railing and rode the waterfall into unknown depths. Six months after that did he start to look younger. The de-aging looks finally stopped when he looked like he did when he was twenty-seven. By then everyone was gone.

Watson had died of heart attack. The original Mrs. Hudson, passed away in her eighties. Irene had died giving birth to their son. Mycroft was shot at point-blank range. He never figured out what happened to Lestrade or Clarkie. His son, John Mycroft died of a brain tumor at the age of seventeen.

Sherlock had long forgotten his work. He was much to busy remembering his past life and how he wished he could of died along with.

He remembered the day his son had died, he put several different bullets in his brain and chest in so many different ways. He just wanted to die and go see everyone he cared about and protected for many years.

He remember that fateful day on the train years before, when he had actually died. He had welcomed death that day, but the peacefulness of death was brought to an end when Watson had administered the wedding gift, he given him a week and half prior to everything, into his chest. He managed to fight with life for a few more seconds, but he ended losing and waking up.

Why he had created such a thing, he had no idea. He still regrets making that stupid thing.


	2. Chapter 2

2010:

Sherlock was in the lab again, working on trying to reverse his curse, when Mike and another man walked in.

Sherlock looked at the stranger, and noticed the cane, the solider attitude. He reminded him of Watson. Only shorter.

Mike then introduced them to each.

"Sherlock. this is John Watson," Mike said.

Sherlock's mind reeled. First Mrs. Hudson, then Lestrade, and now Watson. Who would be next?

* * *

Three and a half months later:

Sherlock, John and the new Moriarty were standing by the pool. Well John was actually sitting on the floor.

"I can't let you live any longer, Sherlock. I just can't," Moriarty said.

"You know I can't die," Sherlock stated, keeping his gun aimed on the bomb.

"You killed my great, great-grandfather and for that you must pay," Moriarty explained.

"Professor Moriarty never had any children. He was a psychopath and a narcissist," Sherlock stated.

"He adopted a son, who took over the business when you killed him," Moriarty said. "Only he used the business for good. After he died Grandpa took over and turned it back to what it once was. Wait why am I telling you this? You've been alive since the first Moriarty."

Sherlock stole a glance at John who just nodded, giving permission to pull the trigger.

"Good-bye Jim Moriarty," Sherlock said, pulling the trigger.

As the bullet hit the bomb, John stood up and pushed Sherlock into the pool.

After the ceiling stopped falling and everything was done flying, John and Sherlock came out of the water gasping for much needed air.

Sherlock climbed out of the pool and began listing off whatever injuries he might have, but for some reason he felt to tired to. By then John was out of the pool as well and by Sherlock's side.

"Oh God," John muttered as he looked at Sherlock's injuries, which there was a lot of.

"I'm fine," Sherlock stated, fighting the tiredness. "I've had much worse."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"I can't die," Sherlock replied, softly as the urge to stay awake, began to hurt. "Wish I could, but can't. I've killed myself hundreds of times for over a century, but never stayed dead for very long."

"I think you're delusional right now, from whatever pain you're in," John stated.

"I'm not delusional," Sherlock argued. "You'll see. By this time next week, I'll be a hundred percent better."

With that said, Sherlock let the darkness claim him. Fighting to stay awake, hurt.

* * *

Two days later:

Sherlock woke up in a hospital bed, John by his side, sitting in a chair. Before alerting John that he was awake he took note of his injuries and calculated how long each one would take to heal for him.

Broken clavicle, three days. Concussion, two days. Broken leg, five days. Broken ribs, almost healed so one more day. Stitches on left side, due to a big piece of shrapnel, rest of the week.

"How you feeling?" John asked.

"Sore," Sherlock replied, not surprised that John had already figure out that he was awake.

"Not something you would normally hear from someone, who's been out of it for two days, Mr. Immortal," John stated.

"Still don't believe me?" Sherlock asked, sitting up in the hospital bed.

"No, I don't," John replied. "I want proof."

"You'll have your proof at the end of the week," Sherlock said. "Or do you want it now?"

"End of the week," John decided. "Don't want you anymore hurt than you already are."

"What happened to Moriarty," Sherlock asked.

"Burnt to a crisp," John replied.

Sherlock leaned back and said, "I certainly hope the line of Moriarty's ends with him."

* * *

One week later, Sherlock and John were back at Baker Street. Sherlock's injuries, as predicted, were all healed, thus proving to John that he was in fact immortal.

"How come you come back to life quicker than you do heal?" John asked as he walked into the to make tea.

"Don't know," Sherlock replied, as he placed himself on the couch.

"How come?" John asked.

"Same reason I can't figure out why I won't die," Sherlock stated. "I've never been able to figure it out."

"How many times have you killed yourself?" John asked.

"I lost count at around two hundred," Sherlock answered.

"Damn," John muttered as he poured the tea in to two cups.

"The only time I ever truly died was in a boxcar on a train to Switzerland. Unfortunately, my partner at the time brought me back with a wedding gift I had given him after I tested it out on his dog," Sherlock said.

"What was it?" John asked, walking back into the sitting room.

"Adrenal extract. It helps start the heart again," Sherlock explained. "I wish I never created though."

"You wish you were still dead?" John asked, handing Sherlock a cup.

"Who wants to live forever?" Sherlock asked in return.

"Good point," John said as he sat down in his chair. "How old were you?"

"Thirty-three," Sherlock replied. "I already knew that I couldn't die by then, and I was already tired of killing myself."

"Do you think you'll ever die?" John asked.

"If I can figure out why I can't die, then maybe I can figure out how to reverse it," Sherlock replied, taking a few sips of tea.

"Are you ready to die?" John questioned.

"I always am," Sherlock said.

"What was your old partner's name?" John asked, changing the subject.

"John Watson," Sherlock answered, as he laid down on couch.

"You're kidding right?" John asked.

"No I'm not. History seems to be repeating itself for me, and I couldn't be more grateful be surrounded by familiar names," Sherlock said.

"Who else?" John asked.

"Mrs. Hudson, I knew her great grandmother-in-law. Lestrade, possible descendant of the one I know. Haven't had the nerve to ask though. Moriarty, as you already know," Sherlock replied.

"Waiting for anyone else to come back?" John asked.

"Irene. God how I've missed her," Sherlock said.

"What was she like?" John asked.

"A master criminal, who's biggest crime was stealing my heart," Sherlock stated. "In 1891, she faked her death to get out of working for Moriarty. A few years later after Moriarty's web was in shambles, she showed up here. We got married later that year. In 1897, we had a son, but she died in childbirth. She was the first person I outlived."

"I'm sorry to hear that," John consoled.

"That was a hundred and thirteen years ago," Sherlock dismissed.

"What about your son?" John asked.

"We named him John Mycroft. Personally, I wanted to name him after me, but Irene said that if we to ever have a son, we would name him after my partner and brother," Sherlock said, as nostalgia swept over him. "He died at age seventeen of a brain tumor. He was the third person I outlived."

"No parent should outlive their own child," John pointed out.

"I was hoping he would inherit some of my immortality," Sherlock replied.

"What about the Mycroft now. Who is he really?" John asked.

"My third son," Sherlock said. "We just say he's my older brother, because he looks older than me and the fact that we fight like brothers."

"Third?" John asked.

"I met a woman in 1931. We had a small fling. I stopped when I realized she was married. One year later I found out that she had had a son. Her husband refused to raise the child, so I got stuck with him. His name was Anthony Michael," Sherlock explained. "He was hit by a car in 1954 on his twenty-second birthday, died on impact."

"What happened to everyone else?" John asked.

"Watson died of a heart attack a few years after Irene passed away. Mrs. Hudson, old age. My brother got shot in the head. I never figured out what happened to everyone else I knew. I stopped taking cases, just so I could raise John. Not taking cases also meant not communicating with anyone at Scotland Yard."

"Did you start taking cases after John died?" John asked.

"No, I hit rock bottom. Started drinking, doing drugs, and trying to kill myself," Sherlock answered. "This must all be very strange for you. I mean here I am regaling to you stuff I've never told anyone, and you're just sitting there asking questions."

"I find it quite fascinating that my best friend is immortal and is going through a repeat in history," John stated. "When did you finally decided to start working cases again?"

"Five years ago, when Lestrade showed up and asked for my input on a case," Sherlock replied. "He had heard around, about what I was able to do. My 'parlor trick' as everybody put it. I've been helping him with cases ever since."

"Are you really a sociopath?" John asked, at last.

"No," Sherlock said. "I just act like one. If I was a sociopath I never would have fallen in love with Irene. I never would have had three sons. Plus I probably would have killed tons of people by now and no one would be the wiser."

"But you kill yourself," John stated.

"Because I'm sick of living! I don't want to live forever! I want to die and be with everyone I care about. I've kept them waiting long enough, don't you think," Sherlock ranted. "What do you think all my experiments are about? I'm trying to figure why I'm still alive. I should have died when I was twenty-one years old and took a bullet to the brain, because I decided to chase after a murderer!"

John said nothing he just stared at the man, feeling sorry for him.

"I don't know what to say," John said.

"Of course you don't. No one would know what to say," Sherlock said as he got up from the couch and exited the flat.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock got into a taxi and had the driver take him to the graveyard. He had some people to visit. People who haven't had any visit them in ages.

While sitting in the back of the cab, Sherlock thought about the day he told Watson about marrying Irene.

* * *

_Sherlock and Watson were enjoying a quiet evening together at 221B Baker Street, sharing a bottle of Scotch, occasionally exchanging a few words here and there. Watson kept glancing over at Sherlock like he had been doing for the past two years, just to make sure his friend was still there and that he wasn't going insane._

_"I proposed," Sherlock stated after to much silence had passed._

_"Excuse me?" Watson asked._

_"I asked Irene to marry me," Sherlock clarified._

_"I thought you were against marriage," Watson pointed out._

_"I was, but after I realized that I wanted Irene by side as my other half forever, and after seeing how happy you are with Mary, I decided to buy a ring and propose," Sherlock explained._

_"What she say?" Watson asked._

_"'Yes,' of course," Sherlock replied._

_"Good for you old chap," Watson said with a grin. "Who's going to be your best man."_

_"I was thinking Mycroft, but then I realized he probably wouldn't even show up," Sherlock joked._

_"Holmes," Watson groaned._

_"I'm joking, Watson," Sherlock defended. "You're going to be my best man. I would never choose anyone, but you."_

_"That's good to know," Watson said._

* * *

Sherlock smiled at the memory, as he walked toward John's grave, and sat down next to it.

"Hello, old friend," Sherlock said looking at the tombstone. He knew all to well that he was talking to someone who wasn't there anymore, but he didn't care. He didn't care if anyone saw the great Sherlock Holmes sitting next to a grave of someone who has been dead for over a hundred years. Giving how no one cared to notice things, they'd probably just pass by thinking, he's visiting his parents or maybe and aunt or uncle.

"I know it's been awhile. Fifty-eight years to be exact," Sherlock said. "That was when Michael died. A lot of things have happened since then."

Sherlock just rambled on about how it seemed everyone was coming back to life, how he had gotten back catching criminals, and how he was still working on trying to die. He talked about his third son.

As he talked, his mind thought back to when he found out that he was going to be a father.

* * *

_Sherlock was sitting in his office when Irene came bursting in, beyond excited._

_Sherlock put down the book in his hands and looked at Irene with much curiosity and asked, "Why are you so happy?"_

_"I'm pregnant, Sherlock," Irene announced happily._

_Sherlock was just silent. He was shocked. He couldn't believe what Irene was saying._

_"Sherlock?" Irene asked as she walked over to him._

_"Uhhh," was all Sherlock could say._

_Irene knelt down in front of him, taking his hand and saying, "I know it's a lot to process. I'm processing it all to, but look on the bright side, we're going to be parents. The parents we always talked about being."_

_"I'm going to be a father," Sherlock finally said._

* * *

Sherlock blinked back the tears as he walked toward Irene and John Mycroft's tombstones. He sat down in between them. He looked at both them stones and read the dates.

Irene Adler Holmes  
1859-1897  
Loving Wife and Mother  
Survived by her Husband and Son.

John M Holmes  
1897-1914  
Wonderful Son and Friend  
Survived by his Father

Sherlock wished they hadn't added 'mother' to Irene's stone. She never even lived long enough to hold their only son. He look at the stone on the other side of Irene's. It read:

Sherlock Holmes  
1858-

"Don't worry sweetheart, I'm so close to figuring out why I'm still here," Sherlock said as he placed his hand on over Irene's name.

He talked to both of them as if they were all sitting in a restaurant having dinner. He talked about the same things he talked to Watson about. He left out the part of having two more sons. He left out the part of hoping to have another Irene in the world.

As he talked, his mind wandered to, Irene's funeral and the days after it.

* * *

_Sherlock took one last look at Irene's face before her coffin was closed forever and placed six feet below forevermore. Even after dying four days ago, she was still as beautiful as ever. She always had to look her best, where ever she went._

_Watson was standing next to Sherlock holding little baby John Mycroft. Mycroft was standing behind the two, watching his younger brother, mourn the death of the only woman he ever loved._

* * *

_Five days after the funeral, Watson came over to Baker Street to check on Sherlock and baby._

_When he enter the house, he heard a gunshot coming from upstairs in Sherlock's office._

_He ran up the stairs and burst into Sherlock's office, only to find his friend on the floor with a hole in his head._

_Watson looked around for the baby, which was no where to be seen or heard._

_Giving up on looking, he got down on the floor, and checked Sherlock's pulse. He was positive that there wasn't going to be one, but there was. It was strong and steady._

_He looked at the hole in Sherlock's head, it was beginning to close._

_"How in the-" Watson started to say but couldn't finish._

_The hole finished closing and Sherlock's eyes shot open. This sudden action of course caused Watson to scream._

_Sherlock sat up and looked at Watson, "Stop screaming."_

_"How a-ar-are y-you-," Watson stammered._

_"Not dead?" Sherlock finished. "I don't die. I wish I had though._

* * *

_After awhile, Sherlock finally manged to get Watson to calm down enough for him to explain._

_"I don't die. I commit suicide, I come back to life. I get shot by a criminal, I come back to life. Every time I die, I come back to life," Sherlock said._

_"So you're immortal like the gods," Watson asked._

_"Seems so," Sherlock said. "I really wish I had died that time, though."_

_"You miss her," Watson guessed._

_Sherlock slumped further down into his chair and said, "More than anything. I just want to see her. I want her back."_

_"You have a son though. What about him?" Watson asked._

_"I can't raise a child on my own," Sherlock argued._

_"Mary and I will help. You're not gong to have to do this alone," Watson reassured._

* * *

Help they did. Even after Watson died three years later, Mary still came by and help Sherlock raise his son.

* * *

Sherlock smirk at the memory of Watson's reaction, when he came back to life as he walked over to his brother's grave.

The last time they ever spoke to each other was the day of John Mycroft's funeral.

It hurt Sherlock, that it had been an argument over the seventeen year old boy.

* * *

_The crowd had left the gravesite just minute's before Mycroft started talking._

_"If you had allowed me to help. Your son would still be here," Mycroft stated._

_Sherlock glanced at his brother momentarily then back at his dead son saying, "You don't work for the government anymore. You couldn't of helped. Besides it was his choice. He said he'd rather die, then take any risks."_

_"I still have a ton of money, I could have afforded the best surgeons in the world to help him," Mycroft replied._

_"He didn't want your help or your money. He wanted to die in his own home. Not in some operating room," Sherlock shot back._

_"Since when does a minor decide what's best for himself?" Mycroft asked._

_"I allowed my son to decide. I gave him that right," Sherlock stated as he made eye contact with Mycroft._

_"He would still be here with you if you had allowed him to have the surgery," Mycroft insisted._

_"What if something went wrong?" Sherlock asked. "What is the surgeon had made a mistake? Would he ever be the same way again? Neither of us wanted to take that risk."_

_"It's your fault then. If you had taken the risk, he'd still be here," Mycroft said._

_Sherlock stared blankly at Mycroft and evenly said, "I should of never named my son after you."_

_With that said, Sherlock took one last look at his son's body, before walking away._

* * *

_That night, Sherlock started trying to figure out why he couldn't die while taking his a gun to his head every few days, so desperately seeking death._


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Sherlock returned to the flat. Once he was inside the flat, he took notice that his flat mate wasn't.

He took out his mobile, getting ready to call John's number, when he heard footsteps behind him and felt a shiver go down his spine.

He turned around and saw old faces standing behind him.

As he looked on with surprise, the mobile fell out of his hand a crashed to the floor.

In front of him stood, Watson, Irene, John Mycroft.

"I must be going delusional," Sherlock muttered.

"Good to see you too, old chap," Watson said, as he made himself comfortable on the couch.

"You can't be real," Sherlock stated.

Irene walked over to him, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek before saying, "We're just the souls of the people you cared about."

Sherlock looked at Irene and said, "I've missed you."

"I know," Irene replied. "Now say 'hi' to Johnny."

Sherlock looked over at his son and gave him a respectful nod saying, "Hi, son."

"Hello, Dad," John Mycroft said, returning the nod.

"When do you plan on joining us," Irene asked, getting Sherlock's attention again.

"Believe me, I want to, but I need to figure out how to die," Sherlock explained.

"You'll figure it out, just don't keep us waiting much longer," Irene encouraged.

"I promise," Sherlock said with a small smile.

Then just as quickly as they came, they had disappeared.

* * *

Sherlock sat up in bed with a startled gasp.

After taking a few deep breaths, Sherlock looked around and began to wonder how he got from the graveyard to the bedroom.

He got out of bed, exited the room and head toward the sitting room, hoping to find John.

"John?" Sherlock asked, when he saw his flat mate, sitting in his chair.

John turned around and faced Sherlock and said, "I guess I should say, good morning, but that would be incorrect since it's one in the afternoon."

"How did I get back here?" Sherlock asked.

"I went looking for and found you sleeping next to a grave," John explained. "I was able to wake you up long enough to get you into a cab."

"Which grave?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm assuming it was your late wife's since it said Irene," John replied.

"Last thing I remember was sitting next to my brother's grave," Sherlock said.

"My best guess, would be that you feel asleep next one grave, woke up briefly and walked to Irene's and fell asleep there," John guessed.

"I don't remember falling asleep," Sherlock stated.

"I don't think you would. You were muttering incoherent nonsense," John pointed out.

"Were you able to translate anything I was saying," Sherlock asked, grasping for some memory, even if it wasn't his.

"Honestly? I think you were stuck in the past," John answered. "I guess our previous conversation triggered the memories."

Sherlock was silent for a moment then said, "I need to get to work."

"On what," John asked.

"On stopping my immortality," Sherlock said, as he walked back in to his bedroom, to change.

* * *

Two months later, Mycroft dropped by, when he knew that John wasn't around.

"What do you want, Mycroft," Sherlock asked, from the kitchen table, working on an experiment.

"I came by to make sure, you still weren't working on the Irene Adler case," Mycroft said.

"You know I am," Sherlock stated.

"She's not your Irene, though," Mycroft pointed out.

"I know that," Sherlock said.

"Apparently not if your still working on her case," Mycroft muttered.

"Didn't your mum ever tell you not mutter around me?" Sherlock asked.

"She did, but you know I never listened," Mycroft said.

"Neither did I," Sherlock said, with a small smirk. "She was an drunken idiot."

"If you know that she's not your Irene, why do you continue to work on the case?" Mycroft asked.

"Have you ever known me to give up on a case," Sherlock asked in return, looking up at his son.

"The one in Westminster, with the father and the little girl," Mycroft said.

"The mother died four months ago of rat poisoning, and the police have yet to arrest him for murder and sexually abusing his own daughter, just because he's a lawyer," Sherlock filled in. "Last I heard, the girl walked into Bart's ER after being raped."

"You still want that guy, don't you?" Mycroft asked.

"I never stop working a case, just because things get in the way," Sherlock stated.

"Do you have feelings toward Ms Adler?" Mycroft asked.

"Possibly," Sherlock answered. "Now leave. I have work to do."


	5. Chapter 5

Christmas Night:

"I guess I should give you my condolences," Mycroft said, looking at his father.

"Why should you? I cared nothing for that woman," Sherlock stated.

"Would you just admit it already and get it over with? We both know you did, because of who she reminded you of," Mycroft shot back.

"Irene never did what this woman did. They are two entirely different people, who happen to share the same name," Sherlock said, angrily.

"They were both criminal masterminds," Mycroft pointed out.

"Irene didn't mess with the royal family. She just married rich men, then stole from them. That was the way she had lived, until she married me," Sherlock explained.

Mycroft sighed, knowing that he wasn't going to win this argument and walked out of the morgue.

* * *

Three months later in Karachi:

"When I say run, run," Sherlock said, posing as Ms. Adler's executioner.

With that said, Sherlock went into action, slicing and slashing anyone who got near him. Soon guns started going off. Anyone still standing, aimed at Sherlock.

Sherlock caught two bullets to his left shoulder, but showed not reaction. He just continued slicing and slashing.

As quickly as it started it was all over.

Sherlock went over to Ms. Adler, help her to her feet and said, "Run to the car parked outside. I'm right behind you."

* * *

An hour later they arrived at the hotel, Sherlock deemed their safe house for the next few days, in case they came looking for them.

Once in the hotel room, Sherlock dropped the duffel bag he had brought with him and took off his disguise and sat down on the bed.

"Your shoulder is bleeding," Ms. Adler stated.

"Excellent observation, Ms. Adler," Sherlock mocked. "I'm quite aware of that, but not at all worried."

"You should be," Ms. Adler insisted.

"I'll be fine in a few days. I just need to a bandage of sorts over the wound," Sherlock replied.

"How do you know?" Ms. Adler asked.

"I just do, Ms. Adler," Sherlock said, not willing to share the story of his curse.

"What about the bullet? It might still be in your shoulder," Ms Adler said.

"Bullets," Sherlock corrected, "and no, they won't be," Sherlock said as he took off the now blood soaked shirt.

"What makes you say that?" Ms. Adler asked.

"Because every time I get shot the bullet just disappears," Sherlock replied.

"You're clearly delusional. Most likely blood loss," Ms. Adler muttered.

"Don't mutter," Sherlock said. "And I know what I'm talking about."

Sherlock reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a travel first-aid kit. He open it and took out some gauze and medical tape.

Sherlock then placed the gauze over the two bullet holes, then taped the gauze in place.

* * *

Four days later - London:

Sherlock walked into 221B only to be greeted by John who looked like he was just about to go somewhere.

"How was the trip?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't say anything, he just stared at John as if he was from another world.

"Sherlock?" John asked concerned.

Sherlock still didn't say anything, he just took a step forward and began to fall. Luckily John caught him in enough time.

"Sherlock," John exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

"Shoulder... bullets... pain... won't heal," Sherlock mumbled.

John gently placed Sherlock on the floor and ripped open his shirt. He looked at the blood soaked gauzes that had been taped to Sherlock shoulder. He then took out his mobile and called 999.


	6. Chapter 6

Three days later:

The first thing Sherlock had become aware of was the sound of a steady beeping. The next was the smell of disinfectant. Both indicators that he was in the hospital.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around the room he was in. In the corner of the room was John, who was sleeping in the chair he was in.

"John?" Sherlock asked, as if to confirm that he was seeing clearly.

John sat up and straight and looked over at Sherlock.

"Thank God, you're awake. We were starting to worry," John said as he stood up and walked over to Sherlock.

"Worried?" Sherlock asked.

"You've been out for three days," John replied. "How are you feeling?"

"My shoulder hurts," Sherlock stated.

"You took two bullets to it, so I imagine it would," John said.

"This doesn't make any sense? My shoulder should have healed on it's own," Sherlock pointed out.

"The bullets were coated in pesticides," John informed. "I guess your immortality doesn't work against bug killers."

"The bullets were still in my shoulder," Sherlock asked.

"Why wouldn't they be?" John asked in return.

"Because, they're supposed to disappear after they enter my body," Sherlock explained, as if it was common knowledge.

"Maybe you're not immortal anymore," John suggested.

"I highly doubt that pesticides would reverse my curse," Sherlock stated.

"Either way, I think you're healing pace has been decreased by several weeks," John said. "How did you get shot anyways?"

"It happened when I first got to my destination. I didn't know where I was going, took a few wrong turns and ended up meeting some not-so-friendly faces. I tried to deduce my way out. I guess they wanted to me to shut up, so they put two bullets in my shoulder," Sherlock lied.

John seemed to believe him, because he said, "Get some rest, while I go call Lestrade and Mycroft, to let them know that you woke up."

Sherlock didn't argue. He was too tired to.

* * *

A week later, Sherlock was back at the Baker Street flat. He, of course wanted to get started on a new case, but John wouldn't allow him to.

"You need to be resting. Not solving crime," John said for the fortieth time since they got back, ten minutes ago.

"I did enough of that in the hospital," Sherlock replied.

John sighed and said, "I can have Lestrade send over some case files for you to work on, but I'm not going to allow you to pursue a criminal."

Sherlock was quiet for a brief moment before replying, "Fine."

* * *

Two hours later, Lestrade was at their flat with a box full of old and new case files.

Lestrade stayed for a few minutes to chat with the crime-solving duo, before heading back to work.

"Wife did it in a crime of passion," Sherlock said as he closed a case file.

Within two hours of getting the box of cases, Sherlock had already closed half of them.

"Why don't you take a break and get some rest," John suggested.

"Not tired," Sherlock stated.

"You don't have to go to sleep," John said. "Read a book or watch the telly. Just take a break from the cases."

"One more," Sherlock asked, well begged.

"One more, then I want you to relax," John said.

Sherlock picked up a file, opened it and said, "I thought they considered this case closed?"

"Which one was that?" John asked.

"The one where the father sexually abused his daughter and poisoned the mother, to shut her up," Sherlock answered. "I talked to Mycroft about it a little over five months ago."

"Anything new in the case?" John asked.

"He raped his daughter six months ago," Sherlock replied.

"You still want to catch the bastard," John guessed.

"More than anything," Sherlock stated.

"Why couldn't we officially charge him again?" John asked.

"He's one of the best lawyers in London. He can't be touched," Sherlock said.

"How old's the girl now?" John questioned.

"Thirteen," Sherlock answered.

"Let me see the file," John requested.

Sherlock closed in and handed it over to his flat mate.

* * *

Sherlock and John spent the rest of the evening as well as a good chunk of the next day going over what information they could gather about the murderer/child molester.

"I need to have a conversation with this man. Maybe I can get information out of him," Sherlock said as he tiredly ran his hand through messy hair.

"I could probably talk to the daughter," John said, with his face buried into his laptop, not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock sat down on the couch and leaned back saying, "How do we get past his security though?"

"You're the genius," John stated.

"For once I can't think," Sherlock admitted. "It's weird not being able to think."

John looked up from his laptop and directly at Sherlock saying, "You've been up all night. It's clear that you need to rest."

"I will rest when this man is behind bars for life," Sherlock argued.

"You are recovering from getting shot, not once, but twice in the shoulder. You need to get some sleep. You're no good to this case if you don't get any rest," John explained. "You said so yourself."

"Fine. I'll rest for two hours. Maybe by then I'll be able to think properly," Sherlock gave in.

"Good. In the mean time I will call Lestrade and update him on the case," John said.

* * *

5:00 PM:

Sherlock and John watched as Lestrade led the child molester away from the daughter he hurt for so many years.

"Satisfied," John asked.

"Very," Sherlock said. "And knowing what's going to happen to him prison, even more."

"Want to get something to eat?" John offered.

"Sure," Sherlock agreed.


End file.
